Julie! Julie!
Frank managed to sigh and grin at the same time. “So, niece of mine. How does it feel—being cheered yourself, for once, instead of leading them?”
“Feels great,” came the immediate response. Julie was now grinning herself. Then, catching sight of one of the faces coming up the slope, the grin faded.
“Oh,
damn
,” she grumbled. “I was afraid of that. Chip’s sulking again.”
Frank looked away. “He’s good at that. I’ve noticed.”
Julie cast a suspicious glance at him. “Are you criticizing my boyfriend, Uncle Frank?”
“Me? God forbid. Nothing else, I’ve got too much sense to tell a young lady what kind of man she oughta latch onto.”
The suspicion was replaced by a mischievous little gleam. “God forbid, my ass!” Then, Julie sighed. “Oh, hell. I’m beginning to think—I don’t know. Maybe Chip’s a little—I don’t know. Too young for me. Too immature. What do
you
think, Uncle Frank?”
“Not for me to say,” was the reply. “Not for me to say.”
“God forbid,” agreed Julie. “God forbid.”
When Gretchen’s husband arrived back at Jena, leading the triumphant American army on his motorcycle along with his friends, he did
not
demand a full investigation into the circumstances regarding the death of one Max Jungers at the hands of his wife.
Not at all. He more or less demanded, instead, that a fair piece of Jena be turned into rubble. Offered to do it himself, in fact, insofar as the very frightened Chief of the Watch could interpret his snarling phrases. And his friends, apparently, were offering to help.
So, when they arrived, did the Americans riding in the awesome APC. So did the Americans marching alongside the thousands of captured prisoners and their camp followers.
So did the Scots cavalry—with the sole quibble that
all
of Jena would look better, loose stone piled on charred beam.
The Chief of the Watch—all of the town’s notables, in fact, who had gathered hastily by now—had no difficulty at all understanding the Scotsmen. The Scots accent was heavy, but their command of German was excellent. And whatever slight misunderstanding there might have been was promptly cleared up by the German contingent in the American army, who added their own cheerful recommendations. Most of which involved the sort of gruesome details which only hardened mercenaries can send tripping so lightly off the tongue.
Fortunately—
danke Gott!—
the American commander was a less irascible sort of man. Slightly.
“Bad,” muttered Mike angrily. “Very bad!” He glared at the cluster of frightened notables. “One of our women
molested
—after not more than
a few hours
in this town? Just visiting old friends and distant relatives?”
He snarled.
“Very bad!”
Then, visibly restraining his fury: “But— No doubt the town itself was not responsible.”
Heinrich interpreted. A small sea of nodding heads greeted that last sentence. Mike responded through clenched teeth.
First, to Heinrich: “Interpret precisely!”
Then, to the notables: “This scoundrel. Jungers, his name? He has friends? Accomplices?”
Eagerly, the notables offered up the sacrificial lambs. Names were named. Faces described. A particularly disreputable tavern mentioned—specified—described in detail—its location precisely depicted—offers of help to find the way—
The APC rumbled down narrow streets, followed by perhaps a hundred American soldiers. The large and well-armed husband stayed behind, surrounded by several hundred equally fierce-looking friends and comrades. Fortunately, he seemed preoccupied with comforting his timid, trembling, terribly upset wife. So, at least, the notables interpreted the beautiful young woman’s shaking shoulders and heaving chest. The husband’s broad smile, of course, was nothing more than a man trying to settle his wife’s nerves.
By the time the APC reached its destination, the tavern had long since emptied. Not even the owner of the ramshackle stone building had stayed behind.
Wise choice. The Americans—in and out of the APC—put on a splendid display of firepower. The large crowd of Jena’s citizens who watched were most impressed. And even more pleased. The tavern’s reputation was well deserved.
So, the incredibly rapid rifle fire which shattered all the windows and pockmarked the soft stone walls was cheered exuberantly. The Claymore mine mounted on the APC’s front armor which blew the heavy wooden door into splinters was greeted with gasping applause. And the pièce de résistance—the grenades lobbed into the interior which turned a tavern into so much wood-and-glass wreckage—produced squeals of glee and even, here and there, some dancing in the streets.
When it was all over, everyone’s good mood had returned. The notables as much as the Americans. It was not surprising, therefore, that the town’s high and mighty were quick to accept Mike’s new offer.
Perhaps—in addition to trade and commerce—
Perhaps—and the value of exchanging knowledge and pooling printing facilities—
—and, of course, now that he thought about it, perhaps a closer joining of forces to protect everyone against the ravages of the coming winter—
—it occurred to the American leader—
—perhaps—
—that Jena could use a bit of help, patrolling the streets and keeping the ruffian element under control.
Wunderbar!
As they left town, one of Jena’s now-fawning notables made so bold as to ask Mike a question. Heinrich interpreted again.
Mike looked up at the banner flying from the APC. It was a modification of the U.S. flag. The same thirteen red-and-white stripes. But the blue field in the corner contained only a single star. A small one, for the space, nestled in the upper left.
“We call ourselves the United States,” he explained.
The notable conferred with Heinrich, making sure that he hadn’t misunderstood the plural. Again, he asked a question.
“Oh, there’s just one state. At the moment.” Mike pointed to the single star. “That’s Grantville, and the surrounding area.”
He beamed down at the notable. “We expect to add others. I think Badenburg and its countryside will be joining us soon. Certainly hope so!” Again, he pointed to the flag.
“Then there will be
two
stars.”
Again, the beaming smile. “You grasp the logic?”
And there he left the notable. Staring at the flag, as it passed slowly out of sight.
Chapter 40
When they got back to Grantville, the town was in an uproar. So was Badenburg and the entire surrounding area.
A huge army had just passed through, the day before. Gustav Adolf’s Swedes, moving like the wind.
“He went right through Thuringia,” Rebecca explained to Mike and Alex. She had been waiting for them outside the high school, where the emergency committee was about to go into session. “He captured Erfurt on October 2, without a fight. That city belongs to the elector of Mainz, you know.”
“Not any longer, it doesn’t sound like,” mused Mike. He frowned worriedly. “That bothers me, being caught by surprise like that. A lot. I screwed up. We had most of the army out of town. If—”
Mackay interrupted. “And what else were you going to do, Michael? The mercenaries attacking Jena had to be dealt with. That was a given.”
The Scotsman shook his head firmly. “This is what war is like, man. You think you can predict everything? Cover all the possible dangers? Ha! You’ll be doing well if you’re right half the time.”
Alex stared to the south. His own face showed none of Mike’s fretting and self-condemnation. Rather the opposite, in fact. “The king must have caught everyone by surprise,” he said admiringly. “Not the custom, to maneuver that quickly. Especially after a great victory. Most armies would have spent months resting on their laurels.”
Mike was still frowning. Mackay studied him for a moment, before adding softly: “You must be willing to face something squarely, Michael Stearns.”
Mike’s eyes came to him. Mackay continued. “You simply don’t have enough men, Mike. And that will not change. Not soon enough, at least. You can certainly defeat a force much greater than yours, in any battle for which you are prepared. But—”
His hand swept in an arc. The broad gesture indicated not simply the hills in the immediate vicinity, but the entire region. Rolling, hilly, heavily wooded Thuringia. “You can not guard against everything. Especially an opponent which can move quickly. I have said this to you before, but I will repeat it. Do not think for a moment that these slow and clumsy tercios are all you will ever face. Or that all of your enemies will line up so neatly for your rifles. I wouldn’t. The Finns wouldn’t. The Croats wouldn’t.”
Mike sighed. “I know, Alex.” He took a deep, slow breath. “There’s too much of a tendency, for us, to think we can handle everything with our modern weapons. Or new ones we could design, if we devoted enough resources to it. But you’re right. That road leads to folly.”
He smiled whimsically. “Probably wouldn’t work anyway. Be a good idea for us to keep Little Big Horn in mind. Not to mention Vietnam. Hardware will only get you so far.”
Mackay’s face was blank. The names meant nothing to him. But Rebecca nodded. She had been devouring books on American history for months.
The whimsy faded from Mike’s face, along with the smile. His expression became almost bleak. “And even if it did succeed—”
“That would be even worse,” stated Rebecca, completing the thought.
“Yes,” said Mike firmly. “Win the battles and lose the war. This world does
not
need another set of conquistadores. I want to bring America into it—
my
America—not some English-speaking version of Prussia.”
Mackay’s face registered confusion. “Prussia? The Prussians aren’t—”
Mike chuckled. “Not today, Alex, no. Sorriest Germans around, this day and age. But just stick around for a couple of hundred years.” The bleakness in his face deepened. “If we don’t succeed—you’ll see all of Germany under a boot heel, soon enough.”
“And worse,” whispered Rebecca. Her father had never been able to finish Morris Roth’s book on the Holocaust. She had.
Mike shook his head, as a horse shakes off flies. “Over my dead body,” he muttered. “What we need is a
political
solution.”
He gave Mackay a shrewd glance. “You’ll be reporting to Gustav Adolf soon, I imagine.”
The Scots officer nodded. “Yes. Not sure when, though. There’s no point in galloping all over the countryside until the king sets up quarters somewhere. But soon, yes.”
“Put in a good word for us, Alex, if you would. I’d just as soon not get the Swedes on our backs.”
Mackay smiled. “I shall,” he replied firmly. “The best word possible.” Beneath his lips, his tongue ran over his teeth. “Got no choice,” he chuckled. “You’ve got the only dentist I know of.”
Ed Piazza emerged from the door. “The meeting’s about to start,” he announced.
Mackay turned away. Although he often attended those meetings, he would not on this occasion. The Americans, he knew, were coming to a turning point. Like any family, they needed a moment of privacy.
“Good luck,” he said.
“What was that about?” asked Rebecca, as she and Mike walked down the corridor to the committee’s conference room. “Is Alex having some problems with his teeth?”
She grimaced. Rebecca’s own teeth had been in splendid condition, by the standards of the day. But she had still spent a few hours in that torture chamber. Luckily, she had moved on the matter very quickly—before the anesthetic was entirely gone.
“Poor man,” she sympathized.
Mike laughed. “Poor man, my ass! There’s nothing at all wrong with his
teeth
, Becky, other than cosmetics. It’s his heart that’s the problem.”
Startled, she glanced up at him. Mike was grinning very broadly. “Oh, yes. The Scotsman is a smitten man. I know.” He reached his arm around her waist and drew her close. “I recognize the symptoms.”
It didn’t take Rebecca more than two seconds to understand. She tucked her own arm around Mike’s waist, and matched his grin. “Poor man,” she concurred. “Mind you, I am a bit surprised. I thought he would be scared off. Once he saw past those magnificent knees.”
Mike shook his head. “Not Alex. A very
substantial
fellow, he is.”
“Do you think—?”
“Who knows? Her uncle thinks well of him. And even her father, it seems. But God forbid the girl should listen to the voice of wisdom and maturity.”
Rebecca snorted. “What woman in her right mind would listen to
such?
” She smiled slyly. “This requires feminine sagacity.”
They were at the door, and relinquished the embrace. Rebecca paused before entering. “I will speak to the lady,” she announced.
Mike eyed her skeptically. “And say what? Your own words of wisdom?”
“Absurd,” she replied. Idly, her fingers stroked her hair. “I said nothing of ’wisdom.’ Only
sagacity
.”
She swept through the door. Over her shoulder: “You would not understand, Michael. You do not read enough poetry.”
“Not
any
,” grumbled her fiancé. Thereby, quite unknowingly, proving her point.
Once he entered the room, Mike pulled up a chair and sat down at the conference table. Glancing around, he saw that the entire committee was already gathered except Frank Jackson.
“Frank will be along later,” he explained. “Along with Gretchen Higgins. They’re seeing to the new prisoners.” He turned back to Rebecca, who had taken her usual seat next to Melissa. “I’d like to start the meeting with a report on the Swedish movements.”
Rebecca clasped her hands on the table, as she always did when giving a report. Then:
